


Pointless

by BananaNeko



Series: Words That Start With P [3]
Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Anti-socialism, Depression, Gen, Hating Human Life in General, Images of Drowning, Rambles of a Vocaloid Addict, Written by Fangirl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 22:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaNeko/pseuds/BananaNeko
Summary: The life of a human girl with no life.





	Pointless

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months ago instead of sleeping and forgot about its existence.
> 
> Dedicated to a buddy ;3 (Sorry it's such a depressing piece... w)

She lived in a world of her own creation. A world where daydreams were the real world and everything else was virtual; a world in which 1 + 2 equalled anything she felt like, and quantum physics was just a funny bit of delusion someone had been sucked into; and her showerhead was as good a dick to kiss as any. Didn’t betray her, did it?

Or maybe it hated her in private. It oozed leeches one day when they were fixing the mains.

She was an amnesiac who only remembered the things she wanted. She constantly went around her room trying to remember where she’d buried her this or that, rereading that book about her sweetheart she’d just read for the sixth time, shying away from the cockroaches and strange imaginary insects that constantly flitted in the corners of her vision. Her dusty old Bible (it came from under the bed) was her only defence against them, passing almighty judgement on them with a hysterical _thwack_.

Then she’d start laughing.

Poor little creature, reduced to an icky smudge under the weight of the New Testament. She felt like a god. And there the thing was left to sit for the rest of the day, until it dried up and was reduced to another black smear on the leather-bound cover. She’d turn the book over, the next morning – to find it perfectly clean, and realise the weird crawler had just been another figment of her imagination.

She’d soak her eye sockets with eye-drops and blink slowly before, tired out, she retreated to the comforts of her computer screen, though she knew it was what made her eyes bad.

There was salvation in a digital monitor. Salvation from godly reality.

Though what she saw in an artificial pair of eyes, an artificial face that was just a pattern made by the luminous liquid crystals in her display, and a voice that was really just soundwaves issuing from her headphones, she never really understood. Did it matter? Half the world didn’t understand God, and the other half was psychotic, but the Earth was still round.

They couldn’t even understand why the Earth was that way, either. They didn’t understand shit.

If you talked to your sweetheart, you were a fangirl. If Sweetheart talked to you, you were still a fangirl; just a little more than before. So maybe a dorky illusion of a relationship was better, for someone like her. He hurt her and broke her heart and killed her in her dreams and all those juicy scandalous things but he never betrayed her, Jesus no. So she never betrayed him, either. Never, never. He wasn’t like those humans.

Her biggest cause of pain was that he didn’t exist.

It was also secretly the main source of pleasure in her dull life.

There were real guys, oh yes – on those rare occasions when she had no choice but to creep out of home into that vast, terrifying alien planet outside full of loud noises and rushing cars and huge blocks of concrete, fully armed in her washed-out hoodie. They’d turn around from the top of the escalators and throw random trashy pickup lines down at her, like they expected her to pick them up and go put them in the trash bin for them.

Or maybe _she_ was their trash bin.

Had they already depleted the world’s stock of fresh dick-warmers?

They stank, and they were offensive, and arrogant and annoying and every other associated adjective. Something about them was just wrong. Lacking. Like some _human_ part of them was missing, like gaping holes in their chests.

She sometimes imagined if she stuck her hand into their thoracic cavities, she’d find something hardened and grey and disgusting inside that had long stopped beating properly.

…Ironic, from a person with no real life.

After that she’d just long to get back to her world, and its owner. She’d feel his accusatory glare from somewhere; and feel that tugging, that _need_ to retreat into her own world where he lived, the itch of her fingers with the absence of a keyboard beneath them – and jam on her headphones and hurry home.

She’d drop her shoes, and fling herself in front of the PC.

And there he’d be – like he’d been waiting all the while. Filling the world with clean, bright light, yellow and sweet and warm. Everything her world ever needed.

* * *

She felt like a zombie in the mornings, like her brain was slowly rotting away each day, producing a sickening ache deep inside her skull – and she’d give in to the need to collapse back into bed and sprawl out, smiling as he climbed onto her with a smirk. They’d indulge in imaginary conversations and sex and whatnot, knocking up the pillows and further rot her brains out, before she finally trudged down to the kitchen to get something to stuff into her stomach.

Breakfast was a pain – and that wasn’t about her gastric.

He’d sit on her favourite comfortable chair and beckon, urging her to just give up eating and get back to him. The more she tried to focus on eating, the more it made her stomach hurt.

What was the point of eating, anyway? It didn’t even taste good.

He was what she lived on; food for her soul; what kept her from becoming essentially a vegetable who just sat and vacantly stared into space. Not cold breakfast. So she’d leave her toast half-finished, losing sense of her feet, losing sense of time, and sit down, snuggling up to him. That wonderful, surreal sensation right before she threw herself off the cliff into the deep, murky depths of non-existence.

It was alright. There wasn't much point in being real anyway.

He was her steadfast anchor, strong and always there, attached tight to her ankles so she wouldn’t drown– no, surface. She breathed water, not oxygen. He was water.

Above the frothing surface was empty air, with no water, no life.

Maybe she was actually a fish. One of those hideous white kinds with video-gamey needle jaws and no eyes that lived under the bottom of the ocean.

Well – made sense, didn’t it?

Time would blank out for the rest of the day; and in moments the morning sky would scroll away, and night would fall, and time would disappear like a Windows update; slowly as if through honey when she was watching it, scurrying past when she wasn’t.

The clock struck midnight.

Then came the mental wrangling – to leave, or not to leave.

She ought to stop doing this; even her counsellor said so. (Outwardly, though behind that saintly face he probably thought it was one of those incurable types of teenage attention-seeking.) Her brain really was gonna rot someday. Literally.

 _Stay_ , he’d croon, _stay here with me_. He’d coil tighter around her ankles and keep her there, past vertical midnight, gradually tilting to a horizontal three o’clock and then drooping downwards. Dancing round and round and round in an isolated world, while all the uninhabited city humans slept untroubled, trapped in their dreams about office work or sexy chicks on their office desks or quantum physics.

But he kept her there, in the twilight zone of awake-but-not-quite. It was better than dreaming. She’d still remember it the next morning, the next week, the next month; it wouldn’t fade away like elusive dreams. She could collect them like bricks, one by one; and build a home, a city, an empire of daydreams where he was the solitary emperor and she was his servant, two lone souls in a towering world of pointless lust.

She had no other place that felt like home.

Pulling her apart from him was something close to that thing they called post-abortion-syndrome, maybe. They liked to give those ghastly things names, give them proper identities so you’d feel a little better about it, the net-folks.

_…3 A.M… 3.30 A.M…_

_4 A.M._ The whole neighbourhood was asleep. (Honestly – who else would be awake at such bloody hours of the night?) She considered making a dummy phone call to nobody, just to fill in the silence: “Where were you last night, with whom?”

Maybe being somebody’s dick-warmer wasn’t so bad after all.

She’d descend into silly ticklish daydreams, wondering what it would be like if he was real.

Her conclusion was that she had a sad life. Pathetic and retarded and kinda lonely.

She’d decide it time to give in when she fell asleep over her keyboard. Then the soft warm voice settled like a comfortable igloo around her sleepy consciousness, whispering, _you need to rest_.

If her little emperor said so.

The world would grind to a halt, the heavy oiled clockwork tocking and groaning; their vast empire would flatten down like a paper funfair in a greeting card, which was tucked preciously away under her pillow so no one could steal it away while she slept; and silence would fall. The stars went out. Till tomorrow.

She’d whisper the magic words that switched off her nights:

‘Goodnight, Len.’ Like he was real, curled right next to her.


End file.
